


Parallel Lines

by dolores



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Bath Houses, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:04:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dolores/pseuds/dolores
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel seeks solace in strangers. He finds something different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parallel Lines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gloss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/gifts).



> For the wonderful and amazing Gloss, to make up for never finishing her Gloss Day fic some years ago. This is set a few years after Not Fade Away, and disregards any and all comics canon.

Angel has arrived at his destination, an unassuming doorway set in a faded old building of thirties design. It’s surrounded by cream-coloured ceramic tiles and lit by a dim neon sign, the electric buzz just audible over the rumble of the city and the distant sound of a blaring horn.

The night air is humid, and the streets of this part of New York stink of fetid trash and sour milk. There’s the faint chemical tang of chlorine at this doorway, too, a smell that always reminds him of this place. The bathhouse has been here for decades, though quite when its primary purpose shifted from hygiene and relaxation to more base forms of pleasure is unclear. No later than the 1970s, Angel could say from personal experience, but maybe it had always been that way.

Its most recent owners had refurbished much of the interior, and now its modern décor of white tiles, chrome shower heads and little LED lights largely belied such a venerable history. There are, still, a few remnants of this bygone age: some Moroccan-style mosaics here and there, a range of mismatching vintage glass doorknobs, the small ticket booth in the foyer. The latter, with its battered mahogany counter and wrought-iron grille, looks even more out of place, as if its fixtures have been removed from some long-closed movie theatre and deposited here, a refugee relic from the days when cinema was the height of glamour.

It has been almost thirty years since Angel paid his first visit to the bathhouse. After a break almost as long, this is his third in the last few months. On each of the two previous occasions he’d made a vow not to return, each time knowing it was a promise to himself he would not keep.

One last time won’t hurt. He pushes open the door and enters.

Inside, the light is still relatively dim. The walls of the foyer are hung with three large, black-and-white photographic prints of naked male torsos, a noticeboard and an antique clock. The music playing from the tinny speakers isn't the usual repertoire of high-energy dance; instead Debbie Harry is singing _Heart of Glass_. Angel approaches the ticket booth and, without looking at the cashier, lays down some notes. “One, please.”

“Sure.”

The money is retrieved; in return the cashier slides a few dollars in change and a locker key attached to a rubber bracelet back over the counter. Angel glances up as his hand closes around both – and finds he is looking at Oz.

“Hey.”

For what seems like a very long time both remain frozen in position: Oz looking up through the grille at Angel, sitting cross-legged on a barstool in a yoga position, a small, spiky, serene, platinum-blond Buddha, Angel looking down, arm outstretched, expression dark.

A police siren dopplers past outside, breaking the spell. Angel, pocketing his change and the key, acknowledges the greeting with a curt, “Oz.”

“Made it out of LA,” Oz states, of Angel.

“Yeah.”

“In one piece?”

“More or less.”

“That’s good news.”

“Thanks. Look, Oz, I – this isn’t…”

“Angel, you don’t have to explain. Even if it is.”

“Is what?”

“Whatever it is you were about to say it isn’t.” Oz’s face remains studiously impassive, no hint of the exaggerated wink or nod Angel half expects. But then this was Oz, not –

Angel imagines Xander, or Spike, or, God, even Buffy knowing he came to this place, and grimaces.

If he notices Angel’s expression Oz remains unfazed, and proceeds to unfold his limbs, stretch like a cat and swivel round into a more conventional seating position, tugging down the hem of his thin, green t-shirt.

After a further moment in which Angel still does not speak, Oz says, “Hey, if you want to head on in, go ahead. It states absolute discretion on the job description. Or at least I figure it would if I had one.”

His job description? “Oz, what are you even doing here?”

The tiniest shrug. “Needed a job.”

“But – here?”

“They put up a sign on the noticeboard,” Oz says, nodding toward the opposite wall, towards said board and its current display of the fire escape plan and a stern warning about putting used towels in the correct basket. “Figured there could be worse things to do.”

“You know what this place is, right?”

A trace of a smile. “Yes.”

The front door swings open and another patron enters, a thickset, if not unattractive man in his forties, with greying hair and stubble. He runs his eyes up and down Angel’s frame, taking in the tight black shirt and tight black jeans, casual glance transmuting to leer. Without taking his eyes off Angel, he greets Oz.

“How’s it going little guy?”

If he objects to being called ‘little guy’, Oz doesn’t let it show.

“Hey Mike. Be with you in a second.” Oz glances at the clock. “So, y’know, I’m off shift pretty soon. Could meet you when you’re done? Be nice to catch up, but if you’d rather not it’s totally cool.”  
  
Angel considers this, but only for a second. “How about I meet you at the bar on the corner in an hour?”

“Deal.”

Angel nods, walks to the end of the hall, opens the door to the interior, and steps inside.

*

In the bathhouse men move slowly and deliberately through the steam, like minesweepers in the fog. Oz’s rock music ambience is substituted for the dull thud of dance tracks and the groans of a porn film on the flatscreen televisions. Multi-coloured uplights in sconces along the walls give the place a club-like atmosphere, reds, greens, blues.

Angel’s first tour through the corridors produces more than a few appreciative glances and subtle invitations, but no suitable quarry. There is time however, and Angel is in no hurry. He does not intend to meet Oz afterwards despite their agreement, or even risk leaving the way he came in. Instead, he will find a fire exit once ready, and this time once he leaves he will truly stay away.

This last visit will have to count.

Eventually he finds an unoccupied private room, a tastefully decorated cell with a bed and wooden bench, plus a small shelf on which sits a lurid pink plastic bowl containing condoms and packets of lube. Taking a seat on the bench, he leans back, spreading his legs enough for the towel to part and bare an inviting wedge of thigh. He will hold court now and wait for the right man – maybe even men – to come to him. Before he leaves he’ll use the steam room too, if no-one is fucking in there. He’s probably the only patron who likes to use it for its original purpose – there’s eucalyptus oil in the steam, it helps him relax.

He closes his eyes for a moment, savouring the thought. When they open, Oz is leaning on the door jamb.

“Hey. Got off a little early. Thought maybe I’d meet you in here.”  
  
Angel blinks, taking in the view: Oz’s towel is slung low, the lines of his hips rising up from the cotton, alabaster skin flushed rose pink across the chest. He has changed in the eight or so years since Angel last saw him shirtless – wolf-sitting duty years before – the soft lines of youth now hard, compact muscles in place of once-narrow shoulders and thin arms.

What hasn’t changed, apparently, is his ability to understand a person better than they would like to admit.

“You knew I wouldn’t meet you?”

“Guessed as much.”

Sighing, Angel passes a hand over his face. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s just – this isn’t something I’m proud of.”

“Don’t think you need to be ashamed, but either way I really won’t tell – apart from my commitment to discretion, I keep a low profile where the Scoobies are concerned. Friends with Giles on MySpace, but that’s mainly a music thing.”

Angel feels relieved and slightly foolish at these words – a feeling that magnifies when Oz starts to smile.

“What?”

“Angel, you do realise I only saw the advert on the noticeboard that day ‘cause I was a paying customer?”

“Oh.”

Okay, now he definitely feels foolish.

“Who knew we were all so flexible? Though maybe I did always wonder about Xander.”

Angel smiles at that. “You weren’t the only one.”

“So we’re good?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

“Cool.” Oz nods, satisfied. “Anyways, Mike was asking about you. Could send him your way if you’d like.”

“Mike?”

“The guy who interrupted us before.”

Angel shakes his head. “Not really my type.”

“No?” Oz pauses for a fraction of a moment. “What is your type?”

The tone is casual but there was just the faintest hint of a raised eyebrow. It is invite enough, for Oz, and Angel finds he is faced with a decision; one he’d scarce been able to believe was really on the table. It hardly needs consideration.

“I like blonds,” he answers.

“Hm.” Oz looks up towards his hairline and his bleached locks, then back at Angel. “Coincidence.”

Angel rises from his bench. “What do you look for, Oz?”

Oz’s eyes are now level with Angel’s smooth, broad chest. He stares at it for a moment then looks up through golden-red lashes, almost coquettish. “Would you believe me if I said ‘tall guys with tattoos?’”

Angel can’t help but grin. “Well, hell, who doesn’t?”

“So we’re a good match.” Oz pushes himself off the door frame and says quietly, “Should I close the door, or do you like it if people watch?”

Angel swallows, the thrill of the very thought surging through him. But no. Not this time, anyway.

“Close it.”

Oz closes the door, the music suddenly indistinct. He leans back against it, folding his arms, nonchalant. “Much as I hate to ruin the moment, but just to be clear before we begin – that whole thing where you lost your soul? That was only ‘cause it was Buffy, right?”

“To break the curse takes a moment of true happiness. Don’t come here for that.” Angel replies, wishing her name hadn’t been brought into this.

“Maybe.” Oz’s eyes seem to glitter. “Though I find it’s surprising just how enjoyable a fleeting, slightly sordid encounter with a total stranger can be.”

Angel’s imagination flashes up obscene images.

He blinks and says, “You’re not a stranger.”

“Don’t know you as well as I’d like to.”

Angel takes another step forward, until they are so close he can feel the heat from Oz’s body and inhale the sweet scent of aftershave and fresh sweat. “Let’s fix that.”

Their first kiss is gentle, Angel’s cool palms cupping Oz’s head, Oz laying one hot hand flat on Angel’s chest. It ends almost as quick as it begins, their foreheads pressed together for a moment, the sound of Oz’s shallow breathing suddenly magnified.

Angel releases and takes a step back, just enough that he can see Oz in full, before reaching forward for Oz’s towel. “I need to see you naked,” he says, voice low. He tugs.

The towel falls to the floor, and Oz stands for inspection, hips slightly pushed forward. He is beautiful, slight but strong, innocent but provocative, and Angel wants to open the door again, show him off to the patrons beyond. Gods, there are so many things he wants to do with Oz, to Oz – he doesn’t know where to start, doesn’t know how far he can push.

Once again, Oz seems to know what he is thinking. “Tell me what you want,” he says, eyes locked on Angel’s own, “Can be submissive, if you like. Actually, _I_ like it. Can do whatever you want me to do – just can’t do too much pain.”

“Understood.”

When an order doesn’t immediately follow, Oz adds, “I wanted this, you know – back in Sunnydale. Wouldn’t ever have cheated on Willow, but still thought you were so hot. Jerked off thinking about you more than once.”

Angel’s chest is tight. “What did you think about?”

“First time, all it took was thinking of you naked. Wondering how big your cock was.”

“You won’t have to imagine any more. Touch yourself for me now, Oz.”

Oz was half-hard when the towel dropped and it takes only a few strokes of his right hand until he is erect. He is circumcised, like most Americans, fatter and longer than Angel might have expected, made to seem all the more so by his otherwise smaller stature.

“Good boy. What did you think of the other times?”

Oz is breathing a little heavier now. “You’d strip me naked in the library, I’d get down on my knees, take your cock in my mouth, both of us knowing Giles could come in at any time – half hoping he would…”

He starts to thrust his hips, toes curling.

“I don’t think Rupert’s out there tonight. As for the rest...”

Angel leans forward to kiss Oz again, and this time Oz lets out a whimper and pushes hard up into Angel’s mouth, his stubble burning Angel’s skin, sucking Angel’s tongue into his mouth. Then Angel breaks the kiss, places his hands on Oz’s shoulders and gently pushes. Oz sinks down until he is kneeling, head level with Angel’s hips. Angel unknots his towel and throws it aside.

“What you imagined?”

“Better,” breathes Oz, staring with hunger at Angel’s erection, thick and pale as the rest of Angel’s body, rising up from smooth, shaven skin. Angel takes it in his hand, and rubs the head across Oz’s forehead, cheeks and nose, before pushing at Oz’s lips. Oz opens his mouth to receive, clearly not a stranger to the action. Angel groans at the wet-hot sensation and the sight of Oz’s lips stretched around him as he slides in and out.

It starts gentle, Oz alternating between sucking Angel’s cock slow and deep and then licking and sucking on his balls, Angel encouraging him with, “oh yeah,” and, “so good,” and “so fucking hot,” and running his fingers through Oz’s bleach-brittle hair. The pace picks up, Angel holding Oz’s head still whilst he thrusts in and out of Oz’s mouth, Oz grunting as he tries to take the pace.

The pressure starts to build, too soon, much too soon, and with difficulty Angel stops, not yet ready to finish, not nearly. Stepping back, he pauses to take in the sight of the now slightly dishevelled Oz, chest heaving and damp with perspiration, lips bruised, chin slick with spit, eyes bright with desire.

“Over here, boy.”

Without hesitation, Oz gets to his feet. Angel grabs his arm, enjoying the feel of hard bicep, and pulls him close. As their mouths meet again, he grips Oz under the arms and lifts him up fast and hard, Oz wrapping his legs tight around Angel’s waist and his arms around Angel’s neck, the weight of his cock pressed hard into Angel’s stomach.

Oz might as well be trying to swallow Angel for the ferocity of his kiss.

Even so, it is Oz who breaks the kiss this time. He stares into Angel’s eyes, still breathing hard, fingers of one hand tracing Angel’s jaw. In a ragged voice he says, “Fuck me.”

Angel swivels and deposits him on the mattress of the bed. “Beg me.”

“Please fuck me, Angel. Please.”

“How much do you want this?”

“You can’t know. God. Need you inside me. Please.”

“Show me.”

Oz lies back and lifts his legs up into the air and apart, holding the back of his thighs, ass on the edge of the bed, exposed, desperate. “ _Fuck me, Angel._ ”

“With pleasure.”

It takes a short time to utilise the contents of the plastic bowl to prepare them both, before a latex-sheathed, still-standing Angel slowly pushes his way inside Oz, who hisses and gasps and whispers oaths Angel can barely hear.

When Angel’s groin comes to rest against Oz’s ass he pauses, savouring the moment, the mind-blowing sight of Oz in this position, calves now resting on Angel’s shoulders, a scene he would never have thought possible not an hour before.

Angel wants to give him the fuck of his life.

He alternates the rhythm, at first slow and steady and deep, then fast and shallow, then slow again. By the time maybe fifteen minutes pass Oz looks undone, face and torso red and shiny with sweat, calling Angel’s name. Angel is reaching his climax, but he wants to see Oz achieve his first.

“Jerk off for me,” he orders, and Oz complies, his hand scrabbling to grab his length, pulling hard, his cock scarlet in arousal, his other hand rubbing at his chest, pinching his left nipple. It takes barely a minute of such stimulation before he cries out and ejaculates, ribbons of come streaking up his body, splattering his lips and chin.

The sight of this alone is pretty much enough and Angel follows almost as quick, bending as he does so for their mouths to meet, Oz rising off the bed to push into the kiss, his taste on both their tongues.

They part all too soon, Angel slowly decoupling and stripping off the condom. Oz slides off the bed and back onto his knees in front of Angel, happily swiping his tongue once, twice over the end of Angel’s cock, climbing up Angel’s body, kissing a path up Angel’s stomach, pinching Angel’s nipples, until he is standing and they are embracing, Oz’s face resting against Angel’s shoulder. He lets out a breath, a silent, singular laugh, warm against Angel’s skin, looks up and says, smiling, “So, shower?”

When he opens the door, the music roars in to the room, deafening.

*

The all-night diner is doing brisk business, bagels and coffee served up to bleary-eyed patrons amidst the clatter of dishes and the sizzle of bacon.

At their table by the window, Angel sits watching Oz demolish a generous portion of eggs benedict, and sips his espresso.

“And that’s why you go to the bathhouse?”

Oz nods. “Sex without the emotional attachment, don’t need to worry about losing control.”

If Angel can understand anything he can understand that, but there’s no need to labour the point.

“Still can’t quite believe you can control the wolf at all.”

A thin smile. “Up to a point. Not quite the cure I’d hoped for.”

“And all it takes is some herbs and meditation?”

“Do a lot of yoga.”

That, at least, explains Oz’s body. Angel’s mind drifts, picturing Oz naked in front of him once more. A thought occurs, one that has nudged at his mind for an hour now. He’s almost too embarrassed to ask, but then again, it’s much too late for any modesty.

“What you said before, when we – the fantasy in the library – did you actually, uh, think of me like that back in Sunnydale?”

Oz smiles. “Oh, yeah, jerked off over you plenty, though strictly speaking? In the particular scenario described it’d be Giles I was blowing and you’d be the one walking in on it – that’s why we were in the library. Excuse the dramatic license.”

“I’m flattered you thought of me at all.”

“I was eighteen and bisexual – pretty much the only person I didn’t want to have sex with was Principal Snyder. But you were a pretty regular fantasy.”

In all honesty, Angel couldn’t say the same – though that was likely about to change in a big way. “Oz, how old are you now?”

“Twenty-six.”

How fast they grow. “You’re as old as I am, then. Physically, at least.”

Oz regards him for a second. “I guess you don’t ever get used to it.”

“What?”

“Mortality.”

That makes Angel laugh. “C’mon, I know twenty-six seems old, but…”

“You’ve lost people who were younger. Cordelia, right?”

Angel’s brow furrows.

“It’s just that you said you got out of LA in one piece. Not so sure that’s true. You didn’t mention anyone else getting out.”

“No, I didn’t. But you’re right, I lost a lot of people in LA. Cordelia, Wesley, Gunn.”

“I’m sorry.”

Angel looks out of the window for a time, watching the world streak past.

“You come to New York as it’s the best place to be alone. You go to a bathhouse for anonymous sex. You try to forget the past. Y’know, that was all working out fine up until tonight.” He turns back to look at Oz, faint smile on his lips.

“I’m sorry,” Oz repeats, and he smiles too. “Actually: je ne regrette rien.”

“You shouldn’t.” Angel doesn’t regret it either. “Anyway, you can’t escape your past forever. It’ll catch up with you in the strangest places.”

“Serendipity.”

Angel has to resist a sudden urge to kiss Oz again, just for saying that word.

“Look, Oz, I want to see you again. There’s a lot more, uh, catching up I’d like to do.”

“Cool. I finish the same time tomorrow. It’s half-price entry too.”

“Or you could come round to my apartment. The bed’s more comfortable, I promise.”

For the first time the whole evening, Oz looks a little uncertain, nervous. “It may sound a little odd considering exactly what we did tonight, but can we start a little slower? Build up to that?”

It does sound odd, in its way. But Angel understands just what he means.  
  
“Deal.”

Tomorrow, they’ll leave the door open.


End file.
